A daughter of Hongkongers in US yearns to make Lunar New Year magic for her children
After years of playing down her Chineseness, Christine Yu feels a responsibility to share her cultural heritage with her sons, and wishes she remembered more of the traditions
We stepped into the lift. Jasper’s hands latched around my mother’s waist and Everett snuggled, half burying his face into the folds of her jacket.
“I’ll see you in February?” my mum asked.
“Yes! And I’ll make you a Valentine’s Day card because Valentine’s Day is in February, right?” Jasper responded, excited to share the new facts about the calendar he learned in pre-school.
“Yes. And so is Chinese New Year.”
“It is? What do we do on Chinese New Year?”
I’m a first-generation American. My parents emigrated from Hong Kong to attend college in the US and to seek a better life for themselves, their families and their future children. They eventually settled in Connecticut in a house they built from the ground up, a wood-shingled home with an oval pool out the back, more modern in design than our colonial Connecticut neighbours.
As a kid, I lived two separate and distinct lives. There was home and there was school. A clear demarcation separated one world from the other. I became an expert at straddling the line between them.
At school, it was easy to shed my Chineseness at the door. On the surface, we were all alike. My classmates and I dressed in the same plaid uniform kilts, navy blue polo shirts with popped collars, sideswept hair and French braids. Everyone played hockey and lacrosse. Everyone toted the same L.L. Bean backpacks and read the same books.
As the years passed, my instinct remained the same – to find a cosy nook in the corner, curl up, blend in like a chameleon. In high school and college, I loathed being lumped together with the other Chinese, Japanese and Korean students as Asian Society kids and I didn’t want to join an Asian sorority.
However, once I started my own family, I could feel the weight of responsibility on my shoulders again. This time, instead of casting aside my background, my heritage is tying me to the past and the future and burdening me with the responsibility to help my children know and understand where they come from.
Yet, here I am watching my two sons grow farther and farther away from the Chinese culture because I don’t know how to share it with them. My Cantonese rivals a three-year-old’s and I can’t replicate the rich traditions that coloured my childhood home.
“Mommy, after winter break, we’re starting a section on China!” My third-grade son squeezes my hand just a little tighter on our walk to school. I can feel him gathering up the courage to continue. And I can feel myself bracing for the question I know he’s going to ask next.
“My teacher has lots of activities and trips planned. Maybe you could come in and do an activity on China? Or come on our Chinatown trip to celebrate Chinese New Year?”
I bristle when I hear his question, still uncomfortable with how I can help him learn about being Chinese. But maybe, as he begins his section on China, I can learn about the country where his grandparents were born, right along with him. And maybe we can teach each other about what makes up who we are.
“I’d love to come and celebrate Chinese New Year with your class,” I say.
The Washington Post